


I Hate You And You Leave, But I Like It Anyway

by bohnem990



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2016 World Cup of Hockey, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Breathplay, Deepthroating, M/M, Premature Ejaculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:13:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21773509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bohnem990/pseuds/bohnem990
Summary: “I’m fine,” Claude says, crossing his arms across his chest. “Why wouldn’t I be fine?”One of Sidney Crosby’s shoulders shrugs and he gives a small, self-deprecating smile. “You can’t be far off your heat.”Claude isn’t really sure how that elephant fit into his hotel room.
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Claude Giroux
Comments: 4
Kudos: 157





	I Hate You And You Leave, But I Like It Anyway

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I started writing this in April of 2017. A lot of things I did back then were questionable. I just decided that maybe it was time to unearth this project and put it out into the interwebs.

“Look, I’m just sayin’ that I think the Pirates can fucking take it this year, man. With the team they –”

“Holy fucking shit,” Ghost cuts Simmer off mid-sentence, staring out across the dead air between their booth in the back of the bar and the where the bartender is serving an extremely attractive alpha.

There is a man standing against the bar with a hockey ass the size of Halifax. He’s the kind of alpha that that walks into a room and causes every head to turn. Omegas salivate and alphas have to quell their internal jealousy before a pissing match can start over every omega left in the room, because they know that if an omega could have their pick, they would pick him.

He’s thick in the right places, with big shoulders and biceps made to cage an omega in, waist wide but compact, and thighs –fuck, those thighs– Claude wants to live between them. From the dark hair to the eyes to that mouth wrapped around a bottle of Lagunitas IPA, he looks – well. No one ever said that Claude doesn’t have a type.

No one asked for your opinion, thank you very much.

Claude spends most of the night sandwiched between Simmer, who’s a beta and the most non-dynamic person that Claude knows, and Schenner, who’s an alpha so young he hasn’t grown into his own skin yet. Claude used to feel like that when he lived with Danny, like being around people that much older than him made him feel even more gangly and awkward than he already was. Sometimes Claude feels bad, mother-henning over Schenner in a way that’s not conducive of growing up. But then they sit together like this, sipping at their respective beers with their shoulders pressed together and Claude is so much more grounded than he would be without him. His boys are his family, even when they suck.

Claude wants to approach the man, but he resolutely does not. He sits with his boys and sips his way through another beer and does not look at the alpha again.

He does an awful job of keeping his eyes to himself. Everywhere he does look the alpha is there, looking back at him. Maybe it’s the red hair; it’s a total dude magnet, Claude thinks. Whoever said gingers have no soul has clearly never fucked one. Not that Claude had any intentions of being fucked tonight, except for how he’s reevaluating that thought.

Between beer three and four, Claude has to break the seal.

When he’s shaking off and zipping up, the bathroom door opens and closes. Claude doesn’t think anything of it; it’s a public bathroom, people gotta piss. He also doesn’t look up, because that was one of the first rules boys learn: do not make eye contact in the bathroom. It’s different than in the locker room, where societal norms are thrown out the window and Simmer routinely gets Claude in a headlock when his pants are at his knees. This is not a locker room and the unspoken law of keep your eyes to yourself still applies. So, Claude keeps his eyes to himself.

The alpha is leaning against the sink. He’s just leaning there, hands tucked into his pockets and looking way too attractive up close. Claude takes a deep breath and it’s a mistake. The man smells like one of those exotic ice cream flavors that Claude never understood, like something named Black Metal, and Claude finally gets it. He smells like earth, and a freshly lit cigarette, and hard work in an auto shop. If Claude ever had to consider what a real alpha smelled like, Claude would say it was this man.

The man doesn’t say anything; Claude has no idea if he sounds like honey or leather, or even want his name is. He raises an eyebrow at Claude and tips his head towards the end stall, the handicap one with enough room for Claude to get on his knees, and Claude doesn’t know why he does it, but he goes.

The tile underneath him is cold enough to seep through his jeans, and will most definitely fuck up his knees for the rest of the night, and he very carefully does not let his hands touch the floor, because who knows what kind of diseases it holds.

(But is that even a real concern when he’s about to put this alpha’s cock in his mouth without a condom?)

The man’s cock is just as alpha male as he is; it’s not worthy of a monster cock title in porn, but it’s an inch or two larger than the average of all the cocks that Claude’s ever seen and it’s full and thick and red. There’s a bead of precome threatening to drip down onto Claude’s waiting lips, but he pitches himself forward and licks it up before it can fall to waste.

The only word that Claude can think of to describe the man is stoic. He’s going hard, wet and messy with none of the finesse he would use in a bedroom. This is a grimy bathroom stall in a bar, finesse and deep throating are not made for this part of town. Bathrooms are for fast and hard with spit dripping out the sides of Claude’s mouth and down his chin, peering up at the alpha through his ginger bangs with his eyes fluttering in pleasure. The man’s face doesn’t crack. The only thing about him that isn’t composed is the hand he’s got at the back of Claude’s head, clutching his hair between thick fingers hard enough to hurt.

Claude loves it.

Claude is hard, pressed against the zipper of his jeans and it aches, balls deep. But he loves it and he refuses to press a palm to his cock to ease the pressure. He loves this, he deserves this. This is not about him getting off (Claude doesn’t even always want to get off), sometimes it’s just about the alpha and making sure that they’re taken care of.

Taken care of like this alpha is now, face still hard and lips pressed together as he’s coming down Claude’s throat with no warning. Claude swallows, because he’s a good omega, but some of it slips out onto his lips and he licks it up quickly.

The feeling in his knees is coming back painfully, pins and needles, and he shifts slightly. Not enough for the alpha to notice unless he’s paying attention. He’s paying attention.

The hand in Claude’s hair gentles, fingers running through his hair more softly than expected. The man pulls Claude onto his feet slowly, letting him stretch his legs and shuffle around for a few quiet moments.

The man still hasn’t spoken. “Good boy,” he says, reaching out and brushing his thumb over Claude’s lower lip.

Claude preens. 

When he finally makes his way back to their booth in the back the ruddy color on his cheeks has subsided and his cock isn’t so obvious against his zipper, but the taste of come still lingers in his mouth. Claude is smirking when he slides back into his seat against Simmer’s side.

“You were gone long. Got lost in the bathroom?” Simmer grins wide, mostly teeth and predatory. Sometimes Claude forgets that Simmer gets laid because he’s so non-dynamic that he’s not fault to wayward things in the same way that Claude is. Like blowing alphas in dingy bar bathrooms.

\---

Sidney started taking hormone suppressants before he had his first rut. He was thirteen years old and the doctors advised him against it. Instead, he sat down with his parents and had a lengthy discussion about the repercussions, and then the choice was made. Sid has never experienced a rut in his life and he doesn’t really want to. The trainers whisper about him behind his back, not quiet enough for him not to hear, but Sid is used to the talking by now. He’s a sorry excuse of an alpha. Sid doesn’t care, he doesn’t need his dynamic if he has hockey.

Claude has never been on hormone suppressants in his life. He was fifteen years old when the trainers advised him against it. They told him that hockey would be simpler, easier, that no team would want an omega with irregular heats, Claude shrugged. He had been told his entire hockey career he was too much or too little. He was not sacrificing this part of himself for the Greater Hockey Good. There is a clause in Claude’s contract with Philadelphia that states he does not have to take suppressants. At the beginning, Ron Hextall’s laughter was barely contained while Claude’s agent did negotiations, had asked what Claude had done to deserve that. By now, Claude thinks he has earned his keep even if the NHL judges him for it. Claude doesn’t care; he doesn’t need their judgment when he’s the only one who knows himself.

\---

Claude has found himself pitted against Sidney Crosby since the beginning. It was never really about the hockey and the media made sure he knew it. They headlined things like “Can an Omega really be the face of a franchise?” and “Claude Giroux to learn a thing or two about dynamics and hockey from Sidney Crosby”. 

Claude spends a lot of his time generously not thinking about Sidney Crosby, so much that he only thinks of him in the terms of first name, last.

They like to tell Claude that if he were a better omega, he would be better at hockey. There are only a handful of omegas in the league and none of them have been given the C like Claude has. But the thing about Sidney Crosby? He’s not an alpha at all; he’s a sorry excuse of one, honestly. But that doesn’t mean that Claude doesn’t want to make an honest man out of him after all.

\---

Putting Claude and Tyler Seguin in a room together at the World Championship is either a blessing or a curse. Claude hasn’t personally decided yet, but Seguin seems to think that it was a gift to man with how much he talks. They are too similar, Claude thinks, with their greatest difference in how stoic Claude is and how much Tyler Seguin definitely is not.

Their similarities start and end at omega. Maybe they branch out to ‘man who sleeps around a lot’, but that’s it, Clause swears.

“There are so many alphas here,” Seguin says dreamily, a wistful look on his face that disgusts Claude. “Half the reason why I love hockey so much.”

Claude raises a judgmental eyebrow at Seguin.

“Okay, maybe it’s only a fourth of the reason, but c’mon. Can you blame an omega?” Seguin’s face is still boyish, despite the facial hair he tries to hide behind. He is still young and dumb and alpha prone like Claude is not.

Yes, Claude can definitely blame him. He definitely does.

“You can’t tell me you don’t fuck every alpha who smells good,” Seguin rolls his eyes at Claude’s silence.

The thing is, Claude doesn’t. Seguin is the twinky omega who owns his dynamic; he’s every alpha’s wet dream. He is ruled by his dynamic, loves to be put on his back with his belly up and a set of teeth on his neck. Tyler Seguin lives to be the bitch society says he is. Claude does not hate his dynamic and he has never once regretted what has been given to him, but Claude is not society’s bitch because he is stronger than that. He is every bit as Sidney Crosby as Crosby is; he is every bit as much of a dynamic hating control freak as the media loves Crosby to be. But they don’t see that in him and they never will. Claude loves to fuck, no doubts about that, but he loves a good fight and loves an alpha who doesn’t expect him to roll over in a whimpering mess at the first whiff of alpha pheromones. Claude wants an alpha out of Sidney Crosby.

No, no the fuck he doesn’t.

(Yes he does.)

It is a laughable subject, really, wanting Sidney Crosby. Wanting Sidney is an accumulation of all the things that will never love Claude back. Sid makes him feel like he is fifteen years old again: too small and too thin with not enough muscle, the boy who would never be drafted. Sid does not feel like Philadelphia. Sid is all Pittsburgh, all hard and fast and angry eyes that mean nothing to Claude. Even though he wants them to.

No, no he doesn’t. Claude is not like that.

“You’re disgusting,” Claude finally sighs and throws his sweaty socks at Seguin’s face. Because having this talk in the middle of changing after their first practice is pertinent, apparently. 

\---

There’s a picture of them floating around the internet, Claude punching Sidney Crosby in the shoulder during practice, and every media outlet from Canada to Europe is analyzing exactly what it could mean. What it means is that Claude is too damn old to be hanging onto anger from when he was an eighteen year old omega, constantly being told how insubordinate he was to Sidney Crosby. Maybe he’s come to realize that Sidney Crosby can’t help who he is any more than Claude can help who he is.

It could also mean that Claude is four days off his heat and his legs are still a little shaky around Crosby. It’s still too easy to lean in too close and take a deep breath of Sidney. He doesn’t exactly smell like much in the same kind of way that hospital rooms smell sterile. There’s an undercurrent of fresh linens, chemical-free body wash, and summer rain, but mostly Crosby smells like suppressants. Claude can still smell him; it’s enough for his post-heat mind to haze into, but it’s mild in a way that anyone who wasn’t Claude, who didn’t pay as much attention as Claude did, wouldn’t notice.

Crosby keeps to himself everywhere but the locker room. Well, he keeps himself away from Claude everywhere but the locker room. On the ice he is casual, cordial even. Out with the team at the bar after games he’s all smiles and “Let me buy you a drink.”, but in the locker room Crosby is.. something Claude isn’t expecting. It’s the one place where Crosby is most comfortable and Claude is uncomfortable. These are supposed to be his boys, but he can’t help but flinch every time someone touches him.

“Beauty fucking goal, G,” Crosby comes up behind him grinning, reaching out to run his fingers over the back of Claude’s neck.

Inappropriate misconduct, Sidney Crosby.

The room flares to life with Claude’s scent, still too close to post-heat and too much infatuation with Crosby for Claude to rein it in. Built into alpha and omega genealogy is a biological inability to scent oneself, but Claude knows what he’s like right now. 

Simmer had told him once what he smelled like: 90% dark chocolate, chicory, and vanilla. Claude never really understood how he could smell like chocolate and vanilla at the same time, but Simmer broke it down for him on a late night after a solid win and too many drinks. Claude is always a little bitter, a little burnt around the edges. Sometimes he’s vanilla, soft and sweet when he’s pleased, happy, and high on a win. Chicory when he’s turned on, the air thick with arousal, cloaking a booth at the back of a bar, harsh and spice and made for only someone who could appreciate what he actually was. 

From across the room Seguin’s head snaps up, trying and failing to hide his smirk. Claude can’t decide if he hates Tyler or not (he doesn’t, not even a little bit), and he ducks his head, suddenly very interested in pulling the tape off his socks.

“You reek,” Hallsy says from his stall next to Claude’s, leaning in too close to Claude’s space and breathing wetly down his neck in a way that isn’t even pleasurable, but more so disgusting.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you that scenting people is fucking rude?” Claude snaps at him, eyes hard like he’s staring at Hallsy from across the dot and not next to him in a locker room. 

“Then don’t put your scent all over the room,” Hallsy doesn’t flinch, but Hallsy is fucking weird like that. He is an Oiler after all and who the hell knows what goes on in that locker room. Four first picks, is all Claude is saying.

“Is this asshole giving you a hard time?” Burnsie grins, saunters over to them slowly with a towel slung far too low around his waist to be completely appropriate. Claude likes Burnsie these days. He reminds him a lot of Simmer, huge like he could crush you against the boards and you would never breathe again, but once you get to know him he’s unassuming and much less gruff than imagined. Burnsie is married to a beta, which is strange for an alpha, but for him it just makes sense. He’s too much; too much for anyone to handle who isn’t his wife. Claude knows he’s like that too, but he can’t imagine ever finding someone who he is enough for.

Those are just the facts of life, folks. Claude has counted on being alone since he got serious about hockey. He was ten years old then, still unpresented. That’s kind of a lot for a ten year old to handle, you know? And boy, does Claude know. Sometimes he knows so much that it feels like the weight of that knowledge will crush him.

Now is one of those times.

Burnsie’s hand comes down on his shoulder, a little too much alpha in this moment. It raises Claude’s heckles, he wants to drop to his knees and that fact raises goosebumps on his skin. “Why don’t you all leave Claude alone and go get undressed so we can have a couple of drinks at the bar, huh?”

Claude’s eyes close without his permission. Burnsie is the kind of alpha that Claude doesn’t usually like (even though he sucks them off in gross bathroom stalls). He can be as big as he appears at first, and cocky, and never afraid to stare someone down and use the right tone of voice to get a beta or omega to do what he wants. And that works for some people, but it’s never worked for Claude. It’s too much for him; Claude has always been too small for an alpha that big.

But it’s nice in the moment, his teammates skittering away from him and back to their own stalls, leaving Claude room to breathe. He sends a small smile to Burnsie, but he’s already looking at Sidney, having a conversation with only their eyes.

Claude doesn’t really want to know what that’s about.

He gets dressed quickly. He’s not sure if his shirt is inside out and in the right direction or if the pants he pulled out of his bag are black or navy blue. The room is spinning slightly, and everything is sharper and deeper and if he doesn’t get out of the locker room soon he’s going to be slipping onto his knees and back into heat. The trainers advised him not to practice yet, this close out of heat, but Claude couldn’t do it. He’s spent his life ignoring doctors and trainers when it comes to his body and hockey; Claude is the one who knows himself best. But at this point, Claude thinks maybe he should have listened to Doctor Morin when he arrived and told Claude to take a few more rest days.

Claude was too stubborn; he’s always too stubborn.

He’s not really sure how he gets from the rink to his hotel room. He knows he walked and took a bus and an elevator and swiped his key card for the hotel and his room, but he’s so far under at this point he’s not too sure of anything anymore.

This isn’t heat. This is something headier than that, syrupy sweet and thick like molasses, dragging him under and holding him down by the neck, fingers calloused and rough around him, keeping him in place with strong hands and dangerous eyes. It’s a lust that’s tied solely to one person and not just every alpha his nose can smell, falling into the rabbit hole that is Sidney Crosby, all doe eyed and uneducated on Omega dynamics. Maybe that’s the draw of it, of him, the foolish fumbling, the idea that Claude gets to be the first person, the first Omega, to touch Sidney Crosby in that way.

He could add that to his resume: defiling Sidney Crosby. His mother would be so proud.

The knock on his hotel room brings him out of his stupor. Claude wasn’t even doing anything fun yet, mostly just lying on the scratchy comforter of his hotel bed and staring at the popcorn ceiling while daydreaming of Sidney Crosby’s mouth.

In the words of Lizzy McGuire, this is what dreams were made of.

It can’t be Tyler, because Tyler has a habit of slamming into their shared room at all hours of the day and night while making as much noise as humanly possible. So it has to be someone else, and if Claude was a betting man he would be putting his money on Burnsie.

Claude drags himself from his bed, rough on his back in a way that makes him feel like it will leave marks, mottled pink and red against his over sensitive skin, and gets to the door of the hotel room between knocks one and two. They’re far apart, like whoever is on the other side of the door doesn’t want to disturb him any more than the knocking already is.

The peephole reveals the man on the other side to be Sidney Crosby. Claude steps back and blinks, rubbing his eyes and then peering into the warped glass again.

Sidney Crosby is still standing there.

It takes more effort than he’s willing to expend to open the door, can already imagine what the room will smell like because of him, because of Sidney Crosby. Would his neutral scent cut through Claude’s own bitter and vanilla, or would it intensify everything and bring Claude’s scent to the forefront of everything and scare Sidney Crosby away? Well, there was really only one way to find out.

Sidney Crosby’s face doesn’t move when Claude opens the door. Claude’s does: a pale red flush that runs all the way down the back of his neck from his cheekbones, nose scrunching against the scent that’s wafting into the room, the scent of almost nothingness that Claude wonders if Sidney Crosby has always possessed.

Claude’s fists clench and his jaw rocks back and forth for almost a minute before he asks, gruff and every bit as Philly as he’s come to be, “What do you want?”

The silence that hits his ears is awkward at best. It’s stifling, a hot night in the Californian Valley stepping off a plane from Northern Canada and he didn’t know what to expect. Sidney Crosby just stands there for long and silent moments like the cat has got his tongue and he’s too shocked to take it back.

“I just,” Sidney pauses, scratching the back of his neck where his hair is getting too long and coughs awkwardly, “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay? The guys were chirping you pretty hard in the locker room, so.”

Despite Sidney standing in the hallway, Claude’s room flares to life with the scent of him, still hospital sterile but with a hint of burnt concern. It burns in the way that Claude thinks that it’s meant to, bitter and harsh in warning. It doesn’t warn Claude to do anything except to foolishly step back and let Sidney Crosby into his room.

In such a small space the scent of Sidney flares grand and imposing. It’s so sterile that it nearly neutralizes what Claude is sure the room reeks of. Not that he can smell it, but he knows it’s there even if Sidney Crosby doesn’t even wrinkle his nose. Not for the first time does Claude wonder if Sidney Crosby’s suppressants have suppressed more than his own scent, but possibly his sense of smell.

“I’m fine,” Claude says, crossing his arms across his chest. “Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

One of Sidney Crosby’s shoulders shrugs and he gives a small, self-deprecating smile. “You can’t be far off your heat.”

Claude isn’t really sure how that elephant fit into his hotel room.

Claude stares at him: at Sidney Crosby of the Pittsburgh Penguins, at his rival, at his mortal nemesis, at his godforsaken teammate. Claude is shook. Sidney Crosby just called out his heat. Did his parents never teach him manners? Did his suppressants kill the rational part of his brain? Claude has never been called out before, not even by his fresh eighteen year old rookie teammates who might not possibly know any better before Claude teaches them better.

“What the fuck?”

Sidney blushes. He honest to god blushes, red hot flare across his whole face like he’d just double shifted in the beginning of the season. Something twists in Claude’s gut and the sharp, spinning the pseudo-heat he’s been fighting off since practice comes to life again.

Claude grunts and leans against the wall. “I’m fine, Crosby. So why are you still here?”

“You, um,” Sidney shuffles his feet and takes a few steps into the room. He stops short and inhales, closing his eyes, and it’s Claude’s turn to blush. Sidney Crosby can smell him and Claude can’t think of anything more mortifying than this.

He can smell Claude, that much is obvious. And despite Claude’s sheer horror at this fact, it doesn’t do anything to help his erection, tenting obviously in the front of his track pants. Sidney Crosby is in his hotel room, saturating everything in his neutral scent, and it’s doing nothing to help the situation. If Claude were anyone else he wouldn’t be turned on by this, but Claude is who Claude is and he’s not getting away from this one.

“You, um,” Sidney repeats, “it just smells like something is.. wrong.”

Claude is going to die. The floor is going to open up and swallow Claude whole. Has no one ever taught Sidney Crosby manners? It’s taboo to point out things like this; it’s rude and uncouth and just thinking about Sidney Crosby, of all people, asking makes his skin crawl, much less actually having to answer the question.

“Didn’t anyone tell you that scenting people is rude?” Claude crosses his arms across his chest and leans into himself, willing himself to just disappear. It makes him look smaller than he is. Claude used to be smaller. When he was younger it was obvious he was an omega, especially on the ice. But growing up he’s worked hard at bulking up, at gaining muscle in the right places, at being larger than the average omega. But now Claude has shrunk into himself, wants to be smaller and less of a target for Sidney’s foolishly aimed words that hurt like the barbs the media has always thrown at him.

Claude can’t think of anything more embarrassing than this moment. What could possibly beat this exact moment in time? Nothing.

It would be too easy to give up all the pretense surrounding them. Claude could uncross his arms and fist his hands in Sidney’s shirt instead. He could press his lips to Sidney’s. Claude imagines it would be angry like they were, rough and tumble, teeth and claws and blood. It would be everything that Claude never wanted, but something he could tangibly have. 

In his Philadelphia bedroom, with the lights off and his shame pushed away into a corner, Claude imagined what this could be. He imagined it the way he wanted it. He wanted it to matter. He wanted not to be heat drunk. He wanted to be soft and sweet with Sidney Crosby and whisper love into his skin so that it burned his lips with half-truths, of how much he loved Sidney, but also of how much he hated it.

“I’ve never been much for social norms,” Sidney shrugs. It’s self-depreciating, the kind of thing that someone does when they know they have quirks that people think are weird. Claude definitely thinks Sidney Crosby’s quirks are weird, but he also thinks they can be foolishly charming. Foolishly to Claude, at least. He’s not sure who else would be stupid enough to want to heat Sidney Crosby. Sidney seems like he would be awful at heat, gangly and sharp like a rookie, but Claude still wants it anyway.

No, he doesn’t. But the more he lies the less sharp they become.

“I can tell,” Claude sneers, less of an edge to his words than he intended. It’s hard to stay mean like he’s supposed to when Sidney is right there and smelling as tantalizing as he does right now. 

It’s too easy to uncross his arms and walk over to the bed, sit down on it and brush his hands over the scratchy bed cover. The pattern beneath his palms is enough to distract Claude from Sidney. It’s enough to focus on and not the scent in the room, on the way that Sidney has filled all the empty spaces in Claude’s head. It’s enough to miss Sidney crossing the room to stand in front of him, bottom lip caught between his teeth. It’s not until SIdney does the unthinkable and reaches out, one of his fingers catching under Claude’s chin to tip his head up to look at Sidney that he realizes he’s even there. 

“What?” Claude frowns, frozen beyond those words. 

“Sh,” Sidney says, barely a whisper, and leans forward slowly. So slowly that it gives Claude enough time to track his every movement. “Stop me.”

But Claude doesn’t move. He can’t move. Every molecule in his body wants this, has wanted this for as long as he can bodily remember. When Sidney’s lips touch his it’s like a whisper, breath against his, sharing a secret that only they know. 

Claude isn’t entirely sure what the secret is, but maybe that’s because the only thing he’s sure of anymore is Sidney. Sidney and the way his lips are slightly chapped from the cold in the rink and there are calluses on his fingers from the way he grips his hockey stick and with whatever it is that’s crawling under Claude’s skin it’s too easy to take his mind to a place where Sidney is gripping something else. 

“Why,” Claude tries to say, but Sidney won’t let him, pushes him back until Claude is half lying on the bed, propped up on his elbow. 

Sidney presses his knee down into the bed entirely too close to the tent in Claude’s pants and the hand that was under his chin wraps around the front of Claude’s neck. He should be afraid, the man the media calls his nemesis with his hand around his throat, but Claude groans. It’s loud, too loud in Claude’s ears and Sidney presses his thumb up under Claude’s jaw and it becomes all too apparent that Sidney has done this before. 

That thought burns red inside of Claude’s chest, tight and angry, like he gets when the two of them are staring at each other across the face off line. And if that’s how it’s going to be, well, Claude isn’t going down without a fight. 

He’s stronger than the average Omega, stronger than Sidney Crosby is probably expecting in these moments. 

It’s easy enough for Claude to get Sidney on his back instead, one leg hooked around the back of Sidney’s knee as he flips them and then slides down to the floor in front of Sidney, fingers pulling at the elastic of the waistband of Sidney’s own track pants. 

Claude can do blowjobs. This part is easy; this part is his specialty. It’s his go to option when he wants the pretense of being in control. He might be the one on his knees, but he’s the one that holds the Alpha’s pleasure in the palm of his hand. 

“Hey,” Sidney tries, reaching down to slide his fingers into Claude’s hair and grip. It’s easy enough for Claude to duck out of his grasp and yank at Sidney’s pants, finger’s catching his boxers as well, and freeing one of the most glorious cocks that Claude has ever seen. 

Okay, he’s probably being very biased right now, but this is not the time to judge. 

“Sh,” Claude says, copying Sidney from earlier. “Stop me.”

But Sidney doesn’t stop him. 

His cock is beautiful. At least it is to Claude, in these moments. If someone asked him later he would probably tell them that Sidney Crosby’s cock was small and curved too far to the left. He would make awful tic tac jokes, but he’d get off to this memory that very same night. 

He runs a finger up the underside Sidney’s cock, the tip sticky with precome, and brings his finger to his mouth, humming around it as he takes in the flavor. It’s slightly neutral like Sidney’s scent is, not too much of anything and Claude can definitely work with this. 

His tongue follows his finger, leaning forward to mouth at the head and dips his tongue into the slit. 

He’s not sure when Sidney’s hand got to his hair, but it’s there now, gripping at it gently and if Claude is doing this, it’s not going to be gentle. His own hand presses against Sidney’s and curls his fingers harder as he lets out a hum that makes Sidney’s hips jump slightly, like he was trying to hold it back. 

And that’s just not going to work for Claude. 

He pulls back and looks up at Sidney through his lashes, licking his lips. “Is that all you got?” 

Sidney’s eyes go hard, narrow while he looks down at Claude and that’s exactly what he wanted. Claude can’t have this nice; he can’t have something nice to write home about or he knows he’s never going to let it go.

Sidney does what he wants, curls one of his hands around the back of Claude’s neck and tightens the fingers of his other hand in Claude’s hair even tighter. Claude feels his eyes slip shut and his mouth drop open. And Sidney takes his cues perfectly. 

Claude swallows down his snarky remark about if Sidney is going to get on with it when he’s fed Sidney’s dick, pushing past his lips and not stopping until Claude can feel it at the back of his throat. He swallows and relaxes when Sidney pauses, waiting to see if Claude can take it. 

Claude can take it; he built himself for this.

It’s not long before Sidney falls into line. The pace he makes isn’t fast, but it’s deep, making Claude swallow around him every time he fucks in. It’s easy enough for Claude for forget himself in this, forget how hard and how high he is when all he has to do is choke on Sidney Crosby’s cock like he was made for it. 

Sidney is quiet enough, but not so quiet that Claude forgets him. He makes choked off sounds like he’s trying to hold them back, choking back groans like Claude is choking on his cock. 

“Swallow,” is the first thing said since Claude had taunted Sidney. 

And of course he’s going to swallow. Claude is almost offended, trying to, poorly, glare up at Sidney. But he’s not paying attention. 

Between that moment and the next it’s game over. Claude gets a mouthful of come and Sidney is cursing above him and the only thing that Claude can do is swallow. 

“Fuck.”

“Mm,” Claude hums, leaning forward, resting his forehead against the bed while Sidney comes down. 

“Come here,” Sidney says long moments later, scooting back to make space between his legs for Claude. 

His knees are stiff when Claude unfolds himself to stand up, but he’s not standing for very long. He goes easily when Sidney pulls his to sit on the edge of the bed, his back to Sidney’s front. It only takes a moment before his track pants are around his ankles and Sidney’s hand is back around his throat. 

“You gonna be good for me?” Sidney asks, voice pitched lower than Claude’s ever heard it. 

And he doesn't want to be good for Sidney, but at the same time, it’s the only thing he wants in this moment. 

His reply doesn’t get to come because Sidney cuts off his air as the hand around his neck compresses his airflow. Too easily Sidney is checking all of Claude’s boxes. Or perhaps it’s just that Claude is falling into every trap Sidney sets for him. 

Sidney is much too good at this for Claude’s liking. 

“Knew you’d be a sweet little omega,” is what Claude hears as his eyes roll back, Sidney’s hand starting up a leisurely rhythm. It’s a barely there touch, such a fucking tease, and Claude is squirming against Sidney before he can stop himself. 

The hand around his throat releases for a few seconds and then presses in again, thumb and forefinger hinging under his jaw to press in the perfect spots to leave him seeing stars. It’s the sweetest torture Claude has ever had and none of his offhand dreams, but everything better. 

“I’ve thought about this.”

And for all that Claude had been on edge for hours it’s those words that end this whole ordeal embarrassingly quickly. Claude paints his thighs and shirt covered stomach with come, squirming near violently as Sidney milks him through it. He’s still touching him at that same slow pace and it’s sending shocks through Claude’s system. He’s trembling and he can't seem to get his body to calm down. 

Both of Sidney’s hands release him and Claude’s head drops back against Sidney’s shoulder, just in time to see the other man raise his come covered fingers to his mouth and lick them clean. 

“Thought about how you would taste too,” Sidney continues with his mind boggling words and they jolt Claude enough to sit up and scramble away from Sidney. 

By the time he gets his track pants back up he can turn and look at Sidney, face still flushed red with one of the most amazing orgasms Claude can remember having. 

“What the fuck just happened?”

“I got you off,” Sidney quirks an eyebrow at Claude as he stands as well. “Was it so good you forgot what happened?” 

“Why?” 

“You wanted it. I wanted it. We’re both adults.” Sidney shrugs, the confidence he’d had previously shuttering off of his face. “Why not?”

“I..” 

Then Sidney is there in Claude’s space, scent still as overwhelming nothing as it had been when he first entered the room. 

“I stopped hating you a while ago. I grew up, I guess?” He runs his fingers through his hair and scratches the back of his neck in a way that Claude is beginning to realize must be a nervous habit. “I thought you might have to.”

Claude has a lot of growing up to do in these moments. The feelings he has for Sidney have been so ingrained into him by society and the media and even himself. He doesn’t want to like Sidney Crosby. But here the man is, standing in front of him, and being honest. The least Claude could do is try to be honest as well, right? 

Right. 

Maybe. 

Okay, right. 

“I kind of love you.” 

It’s a whispered secret Claude has never spoken out loud before. It’s a thought he always cuts himself off from thinking about. Something he is ashamed of. To love the man who had broken both of his wrists, during the playoffs of all places, in a blind rage? How unbecoming of him. 

But Claude is broken and he is fucked and over time he couldn’t stop himself. He can’t stop the truth. Was there ever rage in the first place? Or has he just been angry at himself for what he was feeling? Perhaps.. it was both. 

Sidney smiles for the first time since entering the room. A real, sincere smile. It’s still small and somewhat closed off, but it’s more that Claude has ever gotten from the man before. 

“I know,” Sidney says, taking the last step forward as he crosses the space and closes the gap between them. 

Maybe this is the last first kiss Claude will ever have.


End file.
